


Seal the Deal

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [11]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Falling in love is a scary thing, These two were made for each other, Turtle-Human Relationships, crazy love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9175588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “But so help me,” he slowly continues, each word carrying more intensity than anything that’s ever come out of his mouth before, “say it again…and that’s it.  Say it, and you seal the damn deal.  You’re mine, and I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had WAY too much fun writing this one. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no characters or events considered canon in the TMNT universe. I just own my own characters, and my personal touches to these characters and their lives/relationships - which I take great pleasure in mucking up at every opportunity. Thank you, and Happy New Year!!

It’s one of those things that hits without warning and without mercy, and always at the most inopportune moment. One of those sudden bursts of revelation glorified in films and exaggerated to comic proportions in cheap (see also: trashy) romance novels. If one was to reference the aforementioned for how it feels, one should expect the skies to part, for the heavens to ring with angels’ rapturous harmonies, and a warm fluttering deep in the belly.

For Karai, it feels like a two-by-four, right at the shoulder blades, and asphalt to the back of the head.

She’s hit from behind ( _filthy coward_ , she curses even though her lips are good for nothing but a pained shout) and drops to the pavement. Violent bursts of light, then color, flash across her eyelids like some terrible strobe light. The pain throbs, starting at the back of her skull and rapidly spreading to her temples. Even with eyes squeezed shut, the world spins and she feels sick to her stomach.

“Wanna try that one on _me_ , little man?”

Her eyes snap open; a blossoming migraine protests at the introduction of street lights (they’re as dim as bulbs can possibly be, and equally useless, but right now they burn on her eyes like fluorescents), and then the light is blotted out by shadows. Large shadows: tall and proud, thick with muscle and volcanic masculinity, highlighted dark green and streaked with red. Above her, they stand guard and avenge her without a moment’s hesitation. The power in every move, the graceful ease with which bodies are lifted wholly and thrown into far walls (she can hear bones cracking against brick), the indomitable will that is every fiber of his being…

_I love him._

The thought is terrifying. She’s afraid of it. More than the threat of guns and chains and bruising fists, her heart frightens her. Icy dread blankets her from within, bitterly cold, and locks her traitorous organ in a grip much too tight—and yet she wishes it would clench more, harder, without leniency, until it crushes her heart, and with it every last drop of emotion which has conspired to the most dangerous feeling of all.

_I love him._

The shadows shift once more, smothering her in their presence, and two arms lift her from the filthy ground as if she is weightless (perhaps she is…) “C’mon,” he says, as though she has any other option but to be lifted and carried away; fair maiden ensconced in her knight’s arms, “Cops’re already on their way.”

She can hear the sirens, screeching through the night air. It would save time and effort, should Raphael simply toss her over his shoulder, or let her latch onto his back as many times before, and scale the building to higher ground. But her arms possess no strength to lock in place, and he clearly values the possible severity of her head wound too much, otherwise she imagines he would indeed throw her over one shoulder (he seems to favor the left) and get on with it.

He moves his body in a way her half-blind gaze can’t see, so she is left to simply feel: one knee balancing her from below, one bicep keeping her semi-upright, and the other two limbs remain to bear the weight of both up a five-story building.

She tells him, words lightly slurred, he should have left her behind. Saved his own skin. The New York cops know her; she would have been taken to the hospital, scolded by an officer or two about keeping her nose clean, and then let go.

“Zip it, woman.” Raphael grumbles. “Or I’ll do just that.”

Somewhere in there, she almost hears—he almost says—that he’ll never leave her behind.

_I love him._

***

She wakes up in her loft two days later. Memories of what has passed are fuzzy, filtered across her mind without any real sense of chronology. Raphael constantly waking her up, muttering something about a concussion, “Lucky they didn’t split your skull open, damn it.” Raphael pushing a water glass against her lips, “Drink before I shove an I.V. up your arm.” Raphael bringing bits of food to shove down her throat, and she must have made some (very stupid) comment about pizza being unhealthy, because she does remember a grumbled, “Like you got any weight to lose,” in junction with the greasy aroma of hot cheese sending pointed messages to her belly.

Raphael. Raphael. Always, everything, Raphael.

He’s here with her: perched at the window with an eagle’s sharp gaze looking down at the streets and every man, woman, child, and other moving across the pavement. She thinks to sit up, to command her limbs into cooperation, but instead she lies perfectly still and lets her eyes gaze without shame.

It must be sunset: his body is streaked vibrantly in gold, the red of his bandana looks darker than usual, and beyond his silhouette she glimpses purple and pink and blue fighting each other for last rights to the skyline. The diminutive form of a bird taking flight appears briefly behind his face and then vanishes in pursuit of destinations unknown. Perhaps the harbor, or the bridge, or someplace else; some place far beyond New York.

“’Bout time, Sunshine.” He rumbles, and his features are cast in shadow with only one cheek still highlighted in sunlight. “Thought I was gonna have to pinch you awake again.”

Had he pinched her before? She can’t remember it. More likely, she thinks he’s attempting humor. If so, it falls flat on her conscious.

_I love him._

“You just plannin’ to lay there some more?” now he stands, a mere three steps bringing him close to the bed. “C’mon, Sunshine. Say somethin’. I got nothin’ to work with here.”

_I love you…_ but no. Not now. It’s…it’s too soon. She doesn’t know what this means. She doesn’t understand the beat of her own heart anymore. For over two decades, it has played the same song, a familiar rhythm she recognizes, but the melody is different: softer, gentle, nearly tender. She doesn’t know this song.

“Kiss me.” She breathes. Fire sparks briefly in his dark eyes, then it fades and something resembling concern touches the hard lines of his face. The change, coupled with hesitation, makes her frown. One hand fists in the sheets. “Raphael, _kiss_ me.”

“You say that like we stop with kissin’.” He grumbles, but he hasn’t moved away. “And in case you forgot, you took a street corner to the head, Sunshine. Now ain’t—”

“ _Yes_ , it is.” She could force herself up, provide a demonstration of bravado and shove those petty concerns back down his throat, but she doesn’t. She won’t. He’ll come to her. “I—” _love you_ , “—need you.”

It’s sentimental; more tenderness than her words usually offer, but it’s also true. True, in every horrific sense of the word.

Her fingers snatch the trailing ends of red, streaming down his chest like blood, like passion, like life. She tugs, her grip stronger than any other part of her feels right now, and he’s on her with the first misaligned kiss.

“Damn it, Karai.” He breathes against her lips. His hands are everywhere: jerking the sheets away, pushing her hem aside, finding bare skin with one broad chaffed palm and making a rapid ascension. Patience is not his virtue tonight (or any night); the other hand slides past her hips and between compliant thighs. He curses again, growling into another kiss, and another, while his hands play her body like a great musician does his chosen instrument. As the violinist strokes his strings, or the trumpet player caresses every key with growing frequency, so he touches her.

Karai doesn’t project her voice in grand displays, as a general rule of pride. She finds the behavior vulgar and (more often than not) unwarranted. But, as the violin strings cry out beneath their master’s unwavering touch, so her lips cry out tonight. Tonight, though never before, her tongue is loosened, freed of constraints, and she speaks. She begs. Her hands clutch at him like the drowning do a lifeline cast into the storm. 

_I love him. I love…I love you. I **love** you._

“Drive a man wild, woman.” He growls, somewhere near her hairline. “Make ‘im want to do all kind of things to you…”

“Screw them.” She snarls, but it is passion, not aggravation, coating her words. “I’ve had them. Now I want _you_.”

And she does. She wants him. Too much. The nights—though so frequently spent in his company—aren’t enough to satisfy an appetite which now grows ravenous in the most terrible ways. She wants to come into his world, to be invited in without reservation. She wants to eat pizza and drink soda like the teenager she never was. Watch him love and fight and make amends with his brothers; the family she never knew brought into vivid reality. Sit with Angel and April O’Neil and the pretty blue-eyed woman she’s seen walking down the street with them both—to be one of them, to be _wanted_ among them. To let them teach her to laugh and smile and maybe even dance in the middle of a room just because there’s music playing and she likes the song that much. To be with him, with them, _all_ of them. To dream of family, of life and love, of _children_. To hope for a future.

“Look at me.” Raphael suddenly commands, and gives her no choice in the matter with a single hand under her jaw. All the while, he moves inside her, so wonderfully deep and hot and real, “Where you at?”

“Here.” She breathes, voice trembling off her lips. “I’m here. With you. Please don’t stop.”

It’s so jarring an experience for her to beg, to plead, that his eyes grow wide. Then narrow. And then he presses, deep, deeper than before, and her keening whimper meets their shared air. Fumbling blindly, she seeks his hands—one of them, both of them, it doesn’t matter—and presses the one not currently maintaining balance to her breast. “Touch me.” More breathless gasps, each one more frantic in pitch than the first. “Touch me like you can’t stop. Like you can’t get enough of me. Of this. Of us.”

These are dark waters, a storm-tossed sea beneath starless skies. She has no point of guidance, no reference, and equally no understanding. The words she speaks are meant to be buried away, hidden deep beneath a carefully-constructed façade, which not even the most impassioned moments can undo. These are her secrets, hers and only hers, never to be revealed because they, in their very core composition, betray her to be something other than a fierce warrior of the night. Surrounded in their aura, she is the little girl hiding under a bridge while winter bites mercilessly at her fingers and toes; the chill burns tears into her cheeks, and her breaking heart bleeds out dreams of love, of being touched and held, of being wanted for the damaged mess she really is.

“Give it to me.” His voice is impossibly soft, a caress to her ears. “C’mon, baby. It’s just us. Let me have it. All of it.”

Something warm and wet streaks down her face. Tears? If so, she cannot find the power to banish them or curse their presence. “I…” _love_ , “…you.”

“Can’t hear you, babe.”

The word sticks heavy in her throat, and she chokes around both it and a tiny sob when he moves his hips in that way. “L…” Oh, but she can’t! She can’t!! If she dares, if she opens that door again…

If he rejects her, it will kill her. There is no exaggeration in such a thought, only cold, unforgiving, wretched truth. She wants, she needs, she loves too much. She has never loved before, and now she loves too much for her own sanity. She’s too exposed, too vulnerable. She—

“Still can’t hear you.” He breathes, tone low and husked in the way it gets when he wants her; wants her for the liar she is, for the sinful creature she is…for the broken little girl she’s always been.

“Love.” She chokes. The tears burn hot tracks across her skin. “I…love you. I—oh!”

“Do you?” Now, an accusing tone, and she knows the cause of his doubt rests exclusively on her shoulders. “You love me, huh? Better think twice about that.”

“I—” _I do. I do love you. I’ve never loved before, and I don’t know what I’m doing or how to do it right. I just know…_ so many things to say, to beg his belief, but what words can she say? What would it, really, matter? The past they share is an ugly one; they can never reminisce about their first meeting and remember it fondly as some beautiful moment. Theirs are unsteady foundations…what kind of future does that promise?

“I…” she tries again, scrambling to find her voice, but the only word she can find is his name, erupting from her throat like a cry for mercy. Her world is tossed unceremoniously, side to side, left to right, until she’s guessing as to which direction is up. The grip she has on him is the only anchor remaining; she wonders if her nails are leaving tiny imprints, buried so very deep in his flesh. From where they are digging into each side, her calves are bruising. She’ll feel it for a week, at least.

“Better think real hard before you say that again, Karai.” Scattered as her thoughts are, it takes a frantic minute before she remembers what the hell he’s even talking about. “Real hard. I’ll let you chalk it up to ‘heat of the moment’ and all that crap. Can even blame it on the crack in your skull. I won’t hold you to it or nothin’, so long as you don’t say it again.”

Anger licks her blood for a dizzying moment, and then she forgets the urge to claw his face off as the world tilts precariously once again: he careens back, seated on both knees, locks a bulging limb around her waist, and pushes the free hand into her hair, down her neck, across her face… “But so help me,” he slowly continues, each word carrying more intensity than anything that’s ever come out of his mouth before, “say it again…and that’s it. Say it, and you seal the damn deal. You’re mine, and I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

_Oh God…_ and does He really exist? Was He listening to a scared little girl crying alone in the middle of a winter storm, wishing for the impossible? Has He watched that little girl grow into a woman, let trials and tribulations come without intervention…all for this? All to bring her, without warning, to this terrifying and glorious moment?

Her hands push into his chest, hard, and while she doesn’t have the physical strength to topple him, the message is still received and he drops back with a protesting groan from the mattress. For a delirious moment, her head rolls back, eyes fluttering closed with a low sound; the movement of her hips atop his are rough, reckless, less about skill and more about sensation. She wants to feel the urgent press of his hands into her skin, the rocky thrusts into her body; hear the erratic puffs of breath breaking in the air and the hungry sounds he doesn’t bother to restrain.

“I…I don’t know how to do this.” She whispers; her eyes open after a lazy moment, gazing down and finding fire in his own. “I haven’t done it before. I’m not good at saying ‘thank you’ or being sweet and feminine. I don’t like flowers. I don’t remember and obsess over special occasions. I’m more likely to piss you off than make you want to kiss me, or pamper me like some princess. I’m a fighter. I always have been…it’s all I know. And while it keeps me alive, it’s also kept me alone. I…”

She swallows, losing focus and falling out of sync, and then huffs a breath before tears start falling again. Both hands push hair out of her face, and she continues, “Your brothers have nice girls, Raphael. Angel, for all her tough-girl attitude, is a nice girl. That blue-eyed goddess she’s living with? ‘Nice girl’ written all over her. And April…tough, smart, strong, and _nice_. I don’t know how to be like that.”

“No kidding.” He smirks; the amusement is confusing and distracts her (she can’t help but think, later, that was his plan), and she doesn’t have time to react before he tosses her to the mussed bedcovers. “You’re a hard-as-nails chick in black leather who beats punks into a pulp. And you’re crazy as hell. Act like I don’t know all this already, Sunshine.”

“It’s different—”

“’Hell it is.” His hips pick up where she left off, and coherency is reduced to snippets of speech; little phrases caught here and there without any real sense of what he’s actually saying. In time, she hears her own voice join the mix: his name, harder and don’t stop, and some downright filthy things she almost doesn’t believe are coming out of her mouth.

“ _Oh_ , baby.” He groans, deeply, into her shoulder. “You crazy…” another kiss, then another, down her throat to her collarbone to her breasts, “Who cares, babe? What we’ve got works because it’s us. And in case you forgot, you’re goddamn sexy as hell when you’re pissed at the world.”

“You have issues.” She breathes, fingers curling tight along the ridges of his shell. The texture is rough when she runs her hand up, but smooth in the reverse. Every ridge connects to a pattern, interrupted by small cracks here and there—and a longer one, deeper, that runs an odd angle from one edge before veering off to the other. Why has she never noticed this before? Why hasn’t she really _explored_ him before…?

“You’re pretty freakin’ jacked up yourself.”

She smiles—really, truly, smiles—and throws one leg around his waist. The rough texture of his skin chaffs her inner thigh, pain mixed with pleasure. She nearly purrs.

“I love you, baby.” She finally whispers; the fingers of one hand retreat upwards and glide across his neck. “So consider the deal sealed, because you’re mine and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn straight, you’re not.”


End file.
